Songs We Play
by ibuberu
Summary: She was uncontrollably beautiful. — StevenFlannery, remix fic.


**notes** – I wrote this for a writing remix challenge on lj. _Bijouie_ was kind enough to let me remix her fic, '_Into the Deep'_. I wrote it from a different perspective, so you don't need to read '_Into the Deep_' to follow this. But really, _Bijouie_'s fics are fantastic. She's a talented writer who isn't very well-known round here. Be sure to give her a good read when you have the time, you won't regret it.

" "My name is Steven Stone."  
"I'm Flannery and it's nice to meet you! Like Hoenn so far?"

She doesn't know how but, somewhere, in the depths of her young mind, this man will break her heart.  
Flannery still smiles though, just for fun. "  
– bijouie, 'Into the Deep'

* * *

**Songs We Play **  
_(for the ox)_

Steven remembered only the important things.

They consisted of type disadvantages, the routes winding around Victory Road, the days of the week he had to report to work and the number of fossils he'd excavated.

Whatever else was never quite registered: the number of hands he shook, the faces that accosted him for autographs, fleeting battles and flimsy plastic photographs. He memorised what he could and forgot what he couldn't.

Like the fire of a young lady's hair, the art of her lips and the swell of her chest.

* * *

She smiled with innate skill and asked questions (_"Like Hoenn so far?"_) with perfect poise. Flannery was younger, prettier, simpler than he could imagine. She counted off her team of pokémon with the fingers of one hand, brushed an unruly strand of hair behind her ear and stuck her tongue out when she fumbled with her words. Her jeans were far too baggy and her shirt a couple of sizes too small, her heart much too honest for her own good.

And yet, Steven found himself rewinding her name in his head, sketching the fireworks of her eyes and hair into the back of his skull.

* * *

They bumped into each other more often that they should, but Steven didn't mind – he indulged the fact that she had a scheming bone in her body. He entertained the throng of her conversation with a smile, a polite laugh – didn't exactly shy away from her hand or her shoulder. They were bundled up in jackets and scarves, but the shape of her waist was still criminally noticeable. It was cold in Sootopolis, the snow tickled his nose but couldn't freeze the glowing tint of her cheeks.

Steven tried to forget the curve of her lips when she looked into his eyes (to no avail).

"I prefer the sun," Flannery beamed.

He whispered in agreement, the shell of his ears growing cold. The next moment had her turning to scrutinize him like a teenage girl, complex and awkward and delusional with love. And when she showed him her teeth, Steven forgot about what they were talking about altogether.

It was only her and him and the company of Sootopolis, the memory of a girl's rosy cheeks and promises long forgotten.

* * *

Steven couldn't chase her voice out of his head.

It sounded like romantic poetry, but it really wasn't.

* * *

Wallace huffed into the receiver, not so much angry as shocked. Steven's hand plucked at the buttons of his suit, the other tightened into a fist on the windowsill of his cluttered office.

Piled on his desk were stacks of unsigned documents and agreements, a waiting list of ambitious young trainers and a map of unexplored dungeons of the earth –

the hopeless mirage of this lady with intoxicating lips and culpable hips.

* * *

Flannery propped herself up against him. With the lightest touch of her fingers, she snapped him into two.

* * *

He unclipped the cape from his shoulders and transferred it into Wallace's delicate hands. The Champion's cloak was sown with fame and fortune, expectations and ability – threads of power and decision that he could no longer handle. He patted his friend's shoulder and the crowd applauded the ceremony with adept appreciation and respect. Steven overheard whispers, ludicrous rumours and poorly-crafted lies, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

The man only remembered Flannery standing on the end of the stage with the region's gym leaders. Her eyes watery and her lip quivering, unanswered questions uncovered on her pale, young face. Her mouth moved, her voice drowned out in the noise of the spectators – it was the first time he found the strength to turn away from her.

("What have you become?")

* * *

She leaned on the wall of the far end of the room. Steven packed the last of his belongings into the cardboard box and wiped the dust off his newly tailored suit. Flannery wrapped her hands around herself and stood with a slouch, eyes dark and anxious.

But she was uncontrollably beautiful even then, damn it all.

His palm rested on the head of the comfy swivel chair, now Wallace's. He spun it with a flick of his wrist, and it creaked with each revolution. Flannery marched up to him with foreboding hints of frustration. Steven turned away because he the last thing he wanted to do was to fall into her gaze.

("Why did you do it?")

He spun a lie and presented it to a naïve little girl three years his junior.

But she still thought he deserved to be Champion.

* * *

The sound of a pebble bouncing off the walls of a closed-up cave eased him. Steven picked up another idle rock and flung it into the darkness, just to hear the symphony of collision, the little tune stones usually made when no one was around to listen.

But there Flannery was, rooted to the floor of the cavern, shirt too tight and jeans too loose. She had the same ignorance, same untamed beauty, same uncultured tendencies, same matchstick love plastered on her face. The same face of all the girls he's glimpsed in the crowds, but never bothered to remember. (Right down to the identical tears and mimicked sadness.)

"Do you regret becoming a copy, like everyone else?"

She doesn't (understand).

Steven still kisses her lips though, just for fun.

**end **


End file.
